Shatter
by Shrinking Heliotrope
Summary: Loki's madness is getting out of hand. Set after The Avengers, sort of Thor/Loki but not exactly.


A/N: Just a tidbit from something I'm kindasorta working on but not really where Loki is sentenced to execution and Thor, enraged, breaks Loki out of Asgard and they run off. Kinda ships them, kinda doesn't i don;t even know where I'm going with this but my friend asked me to post it for her because she loves Loki XD So yeah some creepy violent imagery, and incest and all the fun stuff that comes with Loki. Please let me know what you think! :-D

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The thoughts raced and reeled inside his otherwise empty mind. With nothing to occupy himself, his use of magic sealed as punishment and no access to his own expansive library (well, it was not his anymore. Not anymore), he had nothing to think of but his failures and regrets. Feeling worse and worse about himself made it all the easier for him to suspect anyone who didn't treat him with outright hostility. It was awful. It was eating away at him. He loved Thor, and hated Thor, and loved Thor again by sickening turns. Thor smiled sweetly at him from across the table, and Loki would suddenly imagine his face hovering above him, smile intact on his handsome face as he held up a knife covered in blood- Loki's blood. He knew it was sick, but he could not stop it, not for the life of him.

Loki was angry, hateful, bitter.

Loki was afraid.

He deserved death. He deserved to be executed, publicly humiliated so that his family's honor could be restored in the eyes of Asgard. He deserved to have the life choked out of him by Thor's deceptively gentle hands, throttled even as Thor smiled in his face.

All this and more he knew he deserved, and could not stop the flow of these thoughts. It was like a putrid wound, which swelled inside his head, which burst and hemorrhaged black hatred throughout his body.

It became more and more difficult to sleep. To eat. To drink. To look at his brother, to look at the woman who might hereafter be his sister.

But not really. Because Thor wasn't really his brother, anyway. Not really, no matter how much Thor liked to say it or think so. And sometimes Loki was glad for it, because it made his sick unnatural obsession a tiny bit less disgusting. It is marginally less disgusting to desire to kiss, to consume, to melt into the skin of someone who is not your brother.

And that was what he wanted. He wanted to sink his nails deep into Thor's flesh, as vulnerable as any man's no matter what he might believe. Wanted to watch the blood drain from his body, dripping down the curves and slopes of his arms and chest. To press his tongue against the wounds and suck, inhale his life, take and take and take and take until he was full. He didn't want to be empty anymore. He wanted to feel full, whole, complete. He knew that, shameful and sick as it was, he needed Thor for that. Needed to choke the breath out of his lungs, no, watch the life drain out of his eyes, no no no please, make Thor as empty as he was no no don't please no please don't do it, burn everything burn everything burn away all the impurity and disgust and pain.

Ice is clear yet it hid so many secrets. Burn it, burn it with fire, fire is purifying, Loki should lie in a funeral pyre and burn alive burn to death screaming and burning and bleeding yes fire death end an end the end please Loki needed it to end or he knew he would harm the person he loved most and hated most in the world, Thor kissed him good morning and Loki could slip his fingers to his brother's throat, it would be so easy, so easy, pinch the nerves of his neck plunge a knife deep within that strong breast and into the quivering heart. Make that heart stop, make it cold, as cold as Loki. So cold. So empty. Pluck out the eyeballs, beautiful iridescent blue like the ice crystals of Mother's jewelry, he could wear them like jewelry if he wanted. Spit into the empty gouges slam his fists against the broad brow shake the empty head shake it and shake it and shake it and-

Loki woke up screaming, screaming and retching, his stomach rebelling against his own mind. It was too much, too much. He couldn't take more of this. He couldn't. He was going mad-madder than he had been previously- the madness was overtaking him and he was slipping. Acid burned in his stomach and throat, vomit spurted out of his nose, the blood vessels in his eyes burst and left little pools of red floating on white, the acrid-sticky urine on his trousers plastered them to his thighs. He looked like a monster, a creature from the horror film that he and Thor and Jane had watched. A thing not alive and not dead. Stuck in between, stuck in a hideous purgatory of agony, neither being punished nor rewarded just waiting waiting waiting and anticipating his doom. Hel the half-corpse sitting on her throne in the realm over which she presided, the half-girl guarding the dead, poor child poor thing. Poor thing poor thing. Poor thing, they said of her when she was born grotesque and unliving-undead. Poor thing, they said of Loki, found in a Jotunheim temple and taken by the king of Asgard, it was left behind, we pity it as we pity poor Hel. But there is nothing to be done, there is nothing we will do. We pity it from afar, we offer pity to assuage our guilt about doing nothing to help. Oh, burn the pity, burn it away. Disgusting. Useless.

Pity did not help Hel. Pity did not help Loki. They burned, while the pity flowed as freely as wine. They were left to rot, Loki was left to rot, rejected by the people whom he'd thought he belonged to and by the people whose heritage he shared but did not know.

There was no place for Hel, so they gave her the Underworld.

There was no place for Loki, but there was nothing they would do for him.

Not Loki the monster, Loki the murderer, Loki the not-Aesir-not-Jotunn, Loki the Nothing of the No One.

There was nothing. There was nothing. The world was as bare and empty as Loki was inside. He was made of glass, made of ice. One more crack, and he would shatter.


End file.
